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I dreamt the knife knew my name
I was standing in a kitchen that wasnât mine, but the knives on the board were all familiarâeach one had a name etched into the handle, not by me, but by someone whoâd used them for years. I reached for one, and it whispered my name like itâd been waiting. Not âheyâ or âhello,â but my full name, quiet and certain, like it remembered every time Iâd hesitated before slicing. I woke up with my hand still outstretched toward the empty space where the block should be. The silence after is heavier than before.
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